The Walls Between
by Val Evenstar
Summary: Narnia is falling to the cold fist of the White Witch, and Rith must make an important choice. But when he chooses wrong, is all truly lost forever?
1. Dulce Et Decorum Est

**The Walls Between**

_by Val Evenstar_

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**Author's Note:** On yet another random whim, I am publishing Chapter One of my new epic. Thanks to Cherokee (H Max Marius), Dearheart, and Squeaklebeep (E.C. Peters) for going over bits of it with me in Writer's Group.

Like most of my fics, this has a theme song. The title and chapter titles (except for this first one) are pretty blatant clues. I'll reveal the song title at a strategic point, but y'all are free to guess. Except E.D, because she knows me too well :)

The title of this first chapter comes from a poem of the same name by... Langstrom Hughes, I believe.

Enjoy! And do let me know what you think.

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**Chapter One: Dulce et Decorum Est**

Rith screamed and swung his sword in a vicious arc. Tears blurred his vision, blinding him from the horrible sight. It was as if even his body was refusing to let his young eyes, which had already seen too much, witness this travesty.

Rith looked west, past the monster whose dying grimace contorted its vile features. The sun scorched his vision into a haze that he knew was not from the heat of battle, but even its red rays could not block the sight from view.

Above the parapets of Cair Paravel, the last defence of the Narnian realm, a green banner fell. The emblem on it was red, red as the setting sun and red as death, even though it was the symbol of life.

The wind caught the cloth, unfurling the Lion's standard as it plummeted down.

Rith remembered the last time the banner had flashed so brilliantly for all Narnia to see, remembered the shouts of "Narnia and the Lion!" that had filled their hearts and minds. The shout that now arose was the cry of despair, the death-chant of a nation.

The Witch's forces had taken the Cair.

Now they had no place to flee to except the sea.

Rith heard a voice ring out among the clamour – a voice that he knew could inspire hope in the hopeless, but now did nothing more than confirm his greatest fears.

"Narnia! Narnia! To me! To me!" There was a tremour underneath his sister's brave words that told him she knew all was lost.

Rith spun in rage, striking out with his sword, not knowing what he was doing or who he was fighting, or even why he was fighting. What was there left to fight for? His family? His parents and older brother had been slain early in the war; he and Ri'ana were the only ones left. And what of his friends? They were dead by the sword or wand of Jadis. All of them, like he, were too young to deserve such a wicked end as this. They should have been playing in the magical woods, singing under the stars, making merry with all the vigour youth had granted them. Instead, they were caught up in this desperate struggle that had descended upon them.

And now Rith knew how this would end. He would die at twelve years of age, slaughtered like a dumb beast for the Witch's pleasure. He didn't even want to think about what might befall his sister in the hands of the victors, but he knew that she would die fighting if it must end this way.

He did not know if he would meet so noble an end – in truth, he was not even sure he wanted it.

No, Rith knew he did not want to die. Yet he could see no future for himself, in death or in life, and so he screamed.

He screamed at the Witch and her armies, at the lethargy of his people that had allowed this disaster to come to pass, at the islands that refused to send aid. He screamed at the Lion, who had promised – promised! - never to leave them, to always be there to set things right and work for the good of his people – the Lion who had betrayed him.

His blade struck something hard and the grip, soaked with sweat and blood, twisted out of his hand and left him watching helpless as the weapon went flying. Rith stood at the edge of the drop, staring fascinated as the steel fell slowly to the rocks below, glinting in the sun's final rays before shattering on the unforgiving shore.

"Rith!" He heard the scream and unthinkingly turned towards the source.

Ri'ana was charging towards him, dark hair streaming, terror in her voice. For a moment he didn't understand, but then his eyes caught a movement at his side and he looked.

An ogre stood beside him, spiked club raised. Instantly Rith saw his two options. He could stand where he was and take the full, crushing force of the blow, or he could throw himself backwards and follow the flight of his sword, over the cliff into eternity. Would he now choose the death of knight or craven?

Rith did not want to die. He knew what he had to do; he was a Prince of Narnia, and he must fight to his final moments for its freedom. He must draw his dagger and dash towards the beast in a last futile attempt to overcome. He would die in battle as so many princes before him, and songs would be sung of the glory of this moment.

But there would be no songs; not now, not for a very long time, maybe not ever again. No one would remember him; Jadis would make sure his family, his line, did not survive. Rith would be the last of King Frank's descendants, and when he died there would be no more Sons of Adam left to rule Narnia. Instead there would be a Queen with a heart of ice.

Rith felt the bitter bile in his mouth as realisation struck him. Nothing would survive, not even a memory of him. So why should he throw his life away seeking honour that would never be accredited him? He was a Prince, and soon to be a Knight, his father had used to tell him, and he must always act as such. Rith had known this since he was old enough to understand what being a Knight and a Man meant; he knew that Ri'ana, too, understood this, and that was why there was terror in her eyes. She knew she would soon see the last of her family slain, and no matter how much she would want to look away, she must give witness to the noble fashion of his death so that his heroism may not be forgotten.

But Rith knew that she would not see the end of this day. Any sight she carried with her would be forgotten, buried with her under the dust. No words would survive this fell hour.

Rith also knew that, somehow, against the impossible, he still carried hope for life. He would not give up yet; and so would not trade it for the gory glory of death in battle.

His foot lashed out against the headland's turf and he propelled himself sideways and backward onto the open air.

The weight of his choice crashed down on his chest, crushing him ever closer to the coming ground. He had chosen to take his own life; he had abandoned his vows to King and country; he was no Knight.

He feared death.

And so Rith fell, and closed his eyes, despairing, because he knew if he woke up again, it would not be in Aslan's country.


	2. Nothing Left

**Author's Note: **I'll be the first to admit that it's been about two months since I've posted. Hopefully I'll be able to start posting more frequently from now on.

Thanks to the people who pointed out that the poem I mentioned in the last chapter was actually by Wilfred Owen... can't believe I forgot that... but AP Literature was a while ago.

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**Chapter Two: Nothing Left**

Something cold lapped against his legs, and for a moment consciousness begged him to awake to the sensation; somehow it was something to be embraced, something that should not be happening but was, despite the odds. But that hint of cognizance also brought him knowledge unwelcomed; he knew that he had done something terrible and whatever he awoke to would not be a reward.

The sting of salt on a cut in his leg denied him all chance to sink back into oblivion, and Rith opened his eyes from the pain to find himself staring at dark sand. He blinked, aware that this was not right. There should be rock, not sand...

Now at last he was able to classify the wailing thunder that had assaulted his ears even in his semi-conscious state; it was the whine of a harsh wind and the crash of waves on hard shore. Sea-spray blew cold over him so he turned onto his side, ignoring the protests of his battered muscles.

The sky was dark and clouds hung low and ominous over the water; Rith shivered involuntarily, reading the signs of the approaching storm. Strange, there had been no indication of rain over the Cair that afternoon...

Memory came rushing back and Rith jerked his head around and away from the sea, eyes leaping up to the precipice that overhung the beach.

Only there was no cliff. And there were no parapets barely visible over the rise, no flags fluttering in the breeze.

Rith stared.

There was small rise of barely twenty feet about ten meters from shore, steep yet nothing like the edge he had leaped over. None of the jagged rocks he'd glimpsed on the way down were visible here. After the rise, the land sloped gently upwards in a tree-blanketed hill that dominated the landscape. This was not the place he had last been; it was merely a small beach, abandoned because of the coming tempest.

Scrambling to his feet, Rith forced his exhausted body inland. This was wrong, this could not be happening... unless he was dead, but if he was, this was like no afterlife ever described in tale or legend.

The wind whipped his back as biting spray blew in from the sea, but Rith's tired mind didn't even register their effects. He was consumed by this mystery, and confusion as much as necessity drove him to follow it its conclusion.

He reached the uppermost limit of the sand and then paused as common sense returned to him. Going closer to the rise would not help him see what was on top of the hill. And what did he expect to see, after all? Cair Paravel, with the Witch's banner flying? The bloody remains of Narnia's last army?

Rith did not know what to expect, and he did not want to know what he would find. But there was nothing else he could conceivably do until he had the answers to his questions.

Turning, he ran back down the beach and into the water, wincing as the salt lashed his bruised flesh. The sea was grey now and churning, signs of the storm fast coming. Uncaring, Rith splashed out until the waters came up to his chest. Panting from the exertion, he turned his face back to shore, searching for he knew not what, and finding...

A castle?

Hope rushed into his heart; maybe he had fallen into the waters and drifted to another coast of the peninsula - he could tell that the land he had awoken on was part of a headland jutting out to sea – and now he could rejoin the battle and redeem himself and his knight's honour...

But then he looked closer, and knew that this was not Narnia's jewel. The castle was smaller than the Cair and more squat; indeed, it could be no more than three stories tall at the keep! It had none of the sweeping elegance of Narnian architecture, seeming instead a mere fortification of stone. No banners hung from the outer wall, and no smoke rose from the chimneys – or from the plain, Rith noted, unsure of the import of this discovery. Absence of smoke on the surrounding area meant that there was no battle, but it could also mean that the castle was uninhabited.

Whose castle was it, then, if not a Narnian lord's, and where was it, if not in Narnia? Surely he had not ridden the current to Archenland or Calormen - and the notion that he had reached Galma was unthinkable.

Rith needed answers, and for this he knew he needed to find people. Struggling again through the chilly waters, he arrived at the beach and headed directly for the treeline, hoping to call out the dryads. They would not wander freely in this inclement weather, but his ancestors were their kin and for this and his position as Narnian royalty, they would aid him.

"Tree-spirits, brothers and sisters, come out to me!" he called as soon as he was near. The wind stretched his voice high and thin, letting it only linger a second before snatching it away in its frigid grasp.

The trees, dark elms already shedding their summer array, groaned in the wind like a man reluctant to rise to a cold morn.

"Good dryads, I bid you come!" Rith called again, stumbling closer, wanting both companionship and shelter from the biting sea-breeze.

Leaves rustled and branches creaked, but no merry nymphs emerged from the wood.

Confused, Rith approached the nearest elm and laid his hand on its bark, still speaking: "Wood-people, why do you not -"

Shock cut short his words as he ran his fingers over the course bark. Something inside him cried out, and he instinctively jerked away his hand.

The tree was dead.

Rith looked at it in wonder, for it was healthy and some leaves were still green despite the season; why then did the wood-blood in his veins sense death?

Cautiously he replaced his hand, and with the other fingered the low-hanging leaves. He shuddered as his heart told him death and his hand told him life.

Then a tale his grandmother had told him returned to memory, and he heard her voice telling him of the lands to the North and West where forests were ghosts and trees lived where dryads did not. In such places - indeed, in all realms but blessed Narnia -the tree-people did not dwell. Such forests were not truly alive, of course – for what is a forest without tree nymphs? - but more like simple features of the land, like mountains or plains.

Had he then come to Archenland?

Wondering, Rith stumbled into the shelter of the glade, unused to the conflicting sensations of his hands and mind. How did they survive, those people of other lands, in these living graveyards of dead growing things? True, all were not dryad-kin like he, but still...

Rith tripped over a root and grabbed wildly at a branch to keep himself from falling. This land hated him! In Narnia he could move among the wood as the trees themselves walked beside him and the tree-herds; here, the landscape was stiff, unforgiving. And no matter how much Rith desired forgiveness, he knew it was the one thing that would not be granted him, not in this situation, nor in the one that really, truly _mattered_.

Despairing, he pulled himself back upright and trudged onwards and upwards. He did not know why; what good could possibly come of it? - yet he did so all the same. Rith would walk to the top of the hill and to the castle gates because there was quite simply no other option. And perhaps also because hope, once gained, is not a thing easily forgotten.

By the time he reached the sparsely sheltered hilltop, the rain was pouring down. Rith looked through the elms and out to sea, but nothing was visible except a churning blackness flecked with grey and angry white scars of lighting ripping the sky. Wind howled past; the earth raged. The castle that had once appeared so inhospitable now drew him like a moth to candlelight, its solid walls promising shelter and refuge.

Turning his face away from the wind, Rith walked on, battling the treacherous wet ground and stinging rain. A howl whipped past his ear, and instinctively he braced himself for the blast of wind, but none came. Puzzled, he reached back into memory and realised that what he had heard was not the wind at all, but...

It came again, louder now and closer, rooting his feet to the ground.

It was a person. A person!

But the wail was unmistakably a cry for help.


	3. Calm and Rage

**A/N: **Sorry, it's been forever and I know it... life has been busy. Anyway, please enjoy this installment and let me know what you think of it! And I was meaning to go back and fix up the accents, but never got around to it... so maybe that'll be modified one of these days.

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**Chapter Three: Calm and Rage**

It was a howl more than a cry, borne on wings of whipping wind; it settled on his ears for the instant it took him to recognise the frantic plea, then fled back into the wood it had come from. Tired and heartsore as he was, Rith could not ignore it. Too many times this year he had heard it, and almost every time it had foretold the death of a loved one.

Now he had no one left to love him; his last Hope had deserted him in time of greatest need, instead casting him adrift on this strange and haunted shore. There was no one and nothing left, and so Rith felt his soul searching for someone to ease its longing for fulfillment – someone, anyone. This was how Rith found himself turning away from the sturdy stone building and seeking out the one who had given the cry.

It was a Dog's cry, he was almost certain. He knew their speech differed with breed, but their voices all retained a common dogishness that differed them from their cousins the wolves. Many of Rith's good friends in days past were Dogs, and for the sake of their memory he would help any of their kind in need. Besides, he needed some company, and a Dog would be able to give him the answers he sought.

"Art well?" he called into the trees, harbouring little hope of being heard, yet knowing that any Dog's hearing was keener than his own. Rith knew that any Dog reduced to such wailing was not well, but in his present state nothing besides the casual greeting came to mind.

"Art well?" he repeated, eyes roaming the underbrush. For a moment the storm-throes stilled, and Rith was startled to hear a small whimper coming from close by. Quickly he bent his head and shielded his eyes against the rain, looking for the Dog.

After several moments of digging through the bushes and fighting the weather, Rith found him. He was a medium-sized collie, black and white in different places; not a purebred, but a mixture of many breeds. There was a soulful look in his intelligent brown eyes, but they were filled with pain. Rith saw why; his back leg was caught under a branch that the storm in its fury had sent to the ground. It wasn't a very large branch, to a human, but it was quite enough to keep the poor Dog pinned underneath it.

"Ai, good cuz, th'art in some need, I warrant! Well it is that the tempest quieted; but for that I should not have heard thee," Rith exclaimed, forgetting all his manners in his surprise. Hastily he set to work dislodging the branch, taking much care not to jostle the Dog in any way. The rain made the bark slippery and his task difficult; and in the back of his mind a little voice was telling him that something about the Dog was not quite right. But by now he had almost finished moving the branch, and sweat and rain ran mingled down his brow. With a final heave Rith tossed the wood as far away as he could – a good foot clear of the Dog only, even with his best efforts – and turned his attention back to the unfortunate Animal who had been underneath it.

"How fares thy leg, cousin, and is thy dwelling far from here?" he asked, words tumbling out quickly as he strained his eyes examining the Dog's limb.

When he received no answer he again addressed the question to the Dog, but was rewarded only with silence. Thinking that perhaps the storm had prevented him from hearing the Animal's soft speech, Rith settled his attention on the Dog's face. It was then he realised that this was no Talking Beast.

Rith had very seldom seen a Dog that did not talk; indeed, all the Dogs he knew seemed to do nothing but talk! But he knew a dumb beast when he saw one, and much as he wished his eyes were deceiving him there was no doubting that this dog could not speak.

Rith sighed as disappointment and the full weight of his plight came down on him. However, as much as he wished he could simply melt away into the ground and be washed out to sea with the rain, he knew he could not. There was nothing for it but to walk back to the castle, and if he was going there he might as well take the dog. Its fur would lend him extra warmth if nothing else – or extra damp, Rith thought gloomily, though he did not know if it was possible for him to be any wetter.

So it was that they came together through the place where in its days of glory the castle gate had hung. There was nothing there now but an empty break in the stone walls, and it lead to a rather dilapidated courtyard filled with wet weeds and crumbled stones. But there was shelter there from the wind, and a door to the keep.

Out of habit more than politeness, Rith knocked loudly on the door and stood wearily wishing that someone would come and haul open the heavy wood to let him through.

The hinges creaked.

Startled, Rith stepped back from the door post he had leant on and looked up.

A crack of wavering light shone through the door that was swinging slowly inwards. A shadowed figure stood behind the light; the shape of a human perhaps, or maybe a faun.

"Cavath! You've come back to us, noo, have ya then? And we all sickenin' with worry over ye... and what've we here, bringing us company this wet night? And the both of ye all soppin' wet and tired-looking. Come in, come in, good Lord knows there's room enough plenty of ye in this old house! Do come out of the wet and cold!"

Rith staggered in, mind barely registering the words. He saw only the light and warmth offered ... and was that bread he smelled?

"Put our Cavath down, child, and take a seat... George, will you take care of them whilst I fetch a blanket? The young'un's all shivering away with a chill, I shouldn't wonder!"

Blinking in astonishment, Rith only had time to murmur a bewildered 'thank-you' before his host – or hostess, as he knew now – quickly lit a lamp in a sconce on the wall and retreated down the hall with her lantern.

The light had not even fully disappeared around the corner when another entered the large hall where Rith stood, his clothes dripping water onto the cold stone. This time he could make out the shape of the person carrying it – a man, not tall as men were counted, but still strong and very sturdy-looking despite his obvious advanced years.

"Ye'll be wanting a bite to eat, then?" he said, half a question and half a statement.

Rith said nothing.

"Don't worry, boy, we get lots of people coming by here in this season, begging bounty from the lord and lady of the manor." His laugh was humourless.

Rith finally found his voice. "I beg from no one," he said, but his tired lungs could not produce the lordly tone that the words merited. "This animal is a companion of yours, sir, though before I did not know it. Her leg is broken, or at the very least badly bruised, and she has need of care."

The man's aged eyes scrutinized him, weighing his words and trying, perhaps, to make a judgment on his character.

Rith suddenly wondered what this man must think of him; here he was, weary from battle and storm, looking – and feeling – as far from a prince as one could ever be. His clothes were soaked, the colours barely recognisable, just a dull medley of brown and grey. Rith wore no mail – for it was rare in Narnia, and the dwarf-smiths had no time now for the making of it – but only a tough leather jerkin over his tunic. This was mostly out of practicality, for he was young and agile, but not yet strong enough to wear a kinght's armour. But it was also because of his sister... he could still see the fire in her eyes as she'd rashly declared that she would face the same dangers as the Narnian people.

His sword-belt hung empty, and in the fall he had lost his scabbard and quiver. The bow had broken long ago, to stop a charging hag. He had nothing now except for the clothes on his back and even then his trousers were in a frightful state, and his boots were not much better. Even the little knife he'd used for cutting food was gone; all was gone, lost, his honour, lost... except for the ring which with a start he realised was still on his right hand, hidden under a layer of sand and mud.

It was the ring of his house, of the line of King Frank. Gently his fingertips brushed away the dirt to reveal the gold. The crowned gryphon stared back at him, lifeless eyes accusing. Angry, Rith closed his hand over the ring, the mark of his royalty. He wanted to yank it from his finger and throw it away forever; what good had the princehood ever done him? Gotten his family killed, land devoured...yet he was surprised at how slowly he removed the ring, how reluctantly he let it drop to the stone floor to rest unnoticed among the rainwater and mud surrounding him.

Suddenly remembering the stranger's gaze, Rith lowered his eyes and studied the tips of his boots. He wondered if somehow this man could tell what had happened, what he had done...

Then the man laughed softly, though still without humour. It was a sound of concern for both Rith and the dog, a sound meant more to comfort than to cheer. "Come on, then, sit ye down," he said. "Cavath's not the only one needin' aid, though I'd best take a look at her first."

Rith would like to have said that he sat, but in reality it was more through a collapse that he found himself cross-legged on the stone floor. He still held the dog gently yet almost possessively in his lap, but now he slowly moved the canine onto the coat her master had laid down.

"Where'd you find her, lad?" the man asked as he set down the lantern and began his examination.

"I... I don't rightly know, sir, as I am not sure where I am. But she was in the woods not two hundred paces from here."

"Don't know where y'are, now? Something go amiss with the weather, and an outing perhaps? But they're will be time later enough for you to tell your tale, when the Missus has a nice pot of tea going and ye've had a little summat to eat. I'll tell you where y'are, though; welcome, lad, to Pendennis Castle, late home of 'Enry the Eigth, now the 'umble abode of myself and Mrs. Remfrey."

Rith watched as the skilled old hands felt down Cavath's leg, wincing in sympathy with the dog's little moans. "I know not of a Pendennis Castle, sir... what country is it in, pray? And will Cavath be quite all right?" The last he added earnestly, for the poor thing had just let out a pained bark.

"There, there now," Mr. Remfrey soothed, gentle hands calming his pet. "She'll be quite all right, thanks to you – and I'm supposing ye've a name?"

"It's Rith, sir," Rith answered, blinking and wondering why all of a sudden it was so hard to keep his eyes open.

"Rith. Well, I'm sure it's a fine name though I've never heard the like afore. Now, you're going to be right glad that I hear the Missus coming with a blanket and food for ye; but fancy not knowing what country ye're in! Unless it's a shipwreck as brought you here, but even those are rare around these parts now. Ye're in England, Rith; and the new King is George. That be my name too, though I am no king!"

By this time, though, the good Mrs. Remfrey had bustled into the hall and wrapped Rith in a blanket, and she was shooing him down the hall to change into some dry clothes, though it was a pity they wouldn't fit; it had been so long since she and Mr. Remfrey had had a son this young in the place, and anyhow they only kept the castle during storm-season because the owners rented it out during summer hols - but someone needed to make sure the old place didn't fall apart the rest of the year; she and Mr. Remfrey were only too glad to do that, since their home got terribly drafty during high winds, and they were getting old and all the children had long gone off to find work in London.

Rith's tired feet carried him down the stone passageways, but he was beginning to be warm for the first time since... he couldn't remember... sometime long ago... and perhaps now, even though he had expected something quite bad... this might, in fact... turn out to be good after all.


	4. Defences

**Author's Note: **This chapter is the one I'm least sure about, because I know very little about the geography of London, child labour/employment laws in 1910, and other details like that. On a side note, Samuel Crighton was originally named John, but then I found out that that's the name of the lead chap in Farscape (who is actually acted by the guy who now plays the lead chap in SG-1).

Anyway, please enjoy. And yes, I did have to put in a fight scene :)

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Looking back, Rith was surprised that it all hadn't come more of a shock to him. True, one did not usually wake up every day having to remind oneself that the small bed was in an abandoned castle in another world - but all the same he felt that somehow it should have been harder than just that. Perhaps it was easier for him because he still remembered his favourite childhood legends, the tales of his ancestors where magic and mystery came so readily into the scene, where the Lion himself was often present. The King Frank was said to have been from another world, after all; a marvelous world where trees of iron and vast engines grew.

Rith thought for a moment that maybe the engines were like the huge monster he was riding now, called the Cornwall Railway that bore him in its metal belly on twin tracks of iron. No horses pulled it; it was called a train and really quite safe, Mrs. Remfrey had assured him, though both she and her husband infinitely preferred the horse and carriage.

He'd learned many things during his three days at the castle; this world was a round one, for starters. The blue ball with the map of their world had fascinated him, and he'd spent hours questioning the indulging pair. They didn't mind, though, not one bit, Mrs. Remfrey had taken care to let him know. After all, a poor Northern boy like him hadn't had much of a chance for schooling, had he, what with his parents gone and all. Why, he hadn't even a proper way of returning home, so he must of course find work in London until he had enough money to buy passage back to Ireland or Scotland or wherever his home lay. And while the Remfreys would gladly help him pay if they could, it was all they could do to put him on the train to London with a letter to one of their nephews, who owned a cabinet shop and would find some use for him.

Rith had found himself dreading the journey as much as the arrival; people seemed so strange here, in this world where there were too many humans and only dumb animals. At first he had compared everything to Narnia, but after his first day – when he was fully awake, well fed, and in possession of all his wits – he had decided that there was really no way to compare England to Narnia. The only thing that seemed remotely the same was the language they spoke, and even that they did with a strange, roughened accent. Mr. Remfrey had assured Rith that the boy himself was the one with the funny way of talking; like one of the Irish he sounded, or perhaps like a Scot – but at any rate not like him with his Cockney speech or Mrs. Remfrey with her Cornish brogue.

And this was the very least of the differences between the worlds, but Rith found it didn't do much good to dwell on them; it was better to learn them, accept them, and go on. So he went on, carried by a machine that blew white smoke and surrounded by people who he knew nothing of. It was all quite a great mystery, but there was no magic in it, and certainly no Lion. Yet it almost comforted him to know that here, the people knew nothing of him.

It was these thoughts more than any others that kept him company on the ride - these and the copious amount of time he spent observing the people, listening, watching, and learning. He had quickly decided that he was truly not dead, and that this was not an afterlife. He was simply in another place, and he did not dwell on how or why he'd gotten there, as perhaps he should have. But he was still young, though the war had aged him, and such things just did not occur to him.

Rith was anxious about the future, to be sure, and he wanted to do his best to make a good impression on Samuel Crighton, the man who was to be his employer if all went well. Mr. Remfrey had laconically said that he was a good chap, which did not satisfy Rith as much as his wife's long discourse on dear Samuel's successful business and great need for a wife. Rith felt that he could rust the man to be a decent sort, yet he still wondered if he could possibly find a use for one such as he. Rith knew only the basics of wood-work; as a prince, education had needed to emphasize writing, politics, and reading.

So it was with a fair amount of bewilderment and trepidation that Rith descended from the rail car and into the whirlwind of Grand Central Station. He'd been given a rough map of London, drawn carefully on a piece of ledger-paper. They would have given him money for a cab, Mrs. Remfrey had said, except that the prices were so very high, and with the winder coming, she and Mr. Remfrey didn't have much to spare. Rith had told her not to trouble herself, partly out of politeness but also because he did not know what a cab was.

Looking around him now, he wistfully imagined that a cab was rather like the litters he'd heard they used in Calormen, complete with a crier in front to clear away the masses of people in front of him. The train shrieked behind him, casing him to jump and cover his ears, and doubling his resolve to get to some place less noisy and crowded.

After a good ten minutes of struggling, Rith managed to find the main road by following a large family that did not seem quite aware that he was not one of their own. It was evening, about an hour before sunset. Soon his desire to find the shop before nightfall overcame his fear of London people, and he asked a flower lady for directions, which she happily gave, though between the noise of the street and her accent he could barely understand.

Mr. Crighton lived two miles from the center of town – two miles! Rith had never thought a town could be that large – among a mostly crafting district. The people there would be more able to tell him the precise location of the shop. But at least Rith knew he was headed in the right direction. Normally Rith wouldn't think twice about a two-mile walk, but even after his rest at the castle, he was still sore from the battle, and at times he wondered if he had not landed on the spiked rocks after all. He certainly felt like he had. This, along with his unfamiliarity with the city streets, extended the length of the trip so that it was a good half-hour after dark when he wearily came into the right corner of London.

From here the map grew more specific and the flower lady's directions grew more vague. By the light of the lamp-post he could make out some of the street signs, and this helped him immensely, but he still became quickly lost and stopped to ask a older gentleman to help him.

Rith didn't really like the look of the man – he was dirty and haggard-looking, with shifty dark eyes – but since it was after dark, there were not many other people on the streets. He was somewhat surprised when the man started in on answering his question, but was trying to engage him in conversation. Rith would have preferred to leave, but his good manners that he fortunately had not lost in the fall, obliged him to stay.

It came as a bit of a surprise then – though not as much as it would've been under normal circumstances – when Rith barely felt a crafty hand slide out of his trouser pocket. Without looking back, he instantly lashed out behind him with a kick, donkey-style. He heard a satisfying curse as his foot connected with the thief's thigh, and spun to follow up on the stroke. Rith was not that upset about the fact that the man had tried to rob him – he had next to nothing of value in his pockets, only a few small coins – but he was very resentful of the trick that had been played on him. No wonder the old man had talked so long, Rith thought as he placed a chop to the thief's neck before sweeping his feet from under him. Remembering the old man at his back, Rith decided his coins weren't worth the risk and took off running down the street. He just hoped that the old man had given him the right directions.

When no sound of pursuit could be heard, Rith slowed to a walk, lest he trip on the uneven cobbles. And so it was that he came to the simple building that bore the words, "S. Crighton, Esq. Cabinets Extrodinaire" in an elaborate script.

He knocked on the door, almost to exhausted to be anxious. It opened, and a warm light flooded out. S Crighton, Esq., saw the bedraggled fair-haired boy and let the slightest smile tug at his mouth. He opened the door wider, and the good smells of fresh cut pine wood and home cooked broth floated out as Rith stumbled wearily in.

The door shut, and as Rith took in his new surroundings he was very pleased that he was not still on the other side of the door.


	5. Day After Day

**_Author's Note:_ **I'll be updating much more frequently now that summer's here! I can't believe it's more than a month since i've updated this one - and it's been complete since January! Ah well - enjoy it! The best chapters are coming up very soon!

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**Chapter Five: Day After Day**

Crighton, Rith found, was a very wooden sort of man. He was stiff and brown on the outside, with a creased face almost like the bark of a tree. When he walked it was with a jerky motion, quick and stick-like. He was like an Oak, Rith thought – not loquacious or prone to bouts of laughter, but serious with roots that ran deep. But underneath the rough bark was a gentle man, a man who dearly loved beauty. Rith saw it the first day – well, the second, really, because the first day was a Sunday when everyone rested – when Crighton showed him the little shop.

The small display area behind the cloudy glass window was neat and orderly, showing off the carpenter's work. There were clever little dressers and intricate vanities polished to a deep shine, and there were more functional kitchen cabinets and tea-tables. Every piece, big or small, was carefully positioned and kept free of dust.

But it was the workshop that showed the true heart of the man. It smelled of pine shavings and white cedar, and everything was liberally coated with sawdust, except for the work-table. On it were the smooth cream-coloured panels that would become something beautiful. They had been carefully stacked away at the end of the previous work-day, to be prepared for the array of tools that lay at the end of the table. Crighton pointed out the hammers, chisels, sanding-papers, and other tools that Rith did not know and named them all, but Rith did not remember the names as much as he recalled the soft pride in the man's voice as he showed off his trade.

All about the walls of the back room were panels of wood of different textures, grains, and thicknesses. Crighton used only the best of woods, and that, he told Rith, was what made his the best of products, if it would not be too presumptuous of him to say so. Secretly, Rith did think it was rather presumptuous, but as the day progressed, that thought withered.

Watching Crighton skillfully smooth a cedar panel and score a thin groove – perfectly straight - in one of the edges told Rith that, whatever he might say, Crighton was good at what he did. Hearing the precise instructions on how to properly adjoin edges so that they would last long and strong spoke of the wisdom he'd acquired over the years. But when Rith saw him carve – then he understood that Crighton loved his work. He saw the soft light in the man's eyes as his steady hands shaped the hard wood as a potter would clay, and watched the painstaking precision with which each small shaving fell away from the shapes. Rith looked over the other side of the panel, breathless, hardly aware that he was casting his shadow onto the work. Crighton had to ask him more than a few times if he would please back off a little so he could see better to carve, but there was an understanding in his voice as if he, too, had once watched fascinated as shapes emerged as if by magic under a carpenter's hands.

"You'll learn to do this soon, Rith, and the sooner you start the better," he'd told the boy.

"I don't believe I could ever do something like that, sir," Rith replied, quite honest. "It should take years and years to do anything nearly as beautiful as your carvings."

Crighton made a sound that was half chuckle, half growl. "If you're to work in my shop, you'll carve a little every day. Now don't you go and tell me you've never carved before; I'm sure you tortured enough little sticks as a young lad. That's no bad thing, it's how we all learn, but now you're going to learn to work the wood. And it's not a battle, your knife against the wood; it's a partnership. You work with the wood. The shapes are already there, see; all you've got to do is find the best way to bring them out."

"But I don't see any shapes," Rith blurted out, confused. He understood what Crighton meant – after all, he saw shapes in trees every day in Narnia – but the wood the man was using was flat and smooth, a far cry from the living Trees of his home country.

"Then you will have to learn to see," Crighton said, and that was the end of that.

After that first week Rith had not believed it possible to learn anymore than he already had; his head was positively spinning. He hadn't just been given lessons in carpentry and construction; he'd had to learn his way about the shop, the rooms above it, and all the places around that part of town where a businessman might need to go. Rith was doing some bookkeeping, too; at present, Crighton hired a man to take care of his records on a daily basis, but after seeing that Rith knew a bit more of maths than most lads his age, he'd announced with pride that he was quite glad he'd taken the boy in after all. That was not the first time he'd made that remark, and that fact made Rith quite proud.

Rith was no longer afraid that he was unable to earn his keep; he made sure to be wherever Crighton could possibly need him whenever anything needed doing. It was slightly ironic, he thought once; he was a prince now in a servant's role. He supposed that now he appreciated more what the family's few servants had done for him, but he knew that he was only doing this because of rather extraordinary circumstances.

The whole place was so different and wonderful and absolutely terrifying that Rith hardly knew what he ought to be doing. He hadn't any home in Ireland, as Mrs. Remfrey had thought; he had nowhere to go back to, except Narnia, and he didn't rightly know how he could get _there_. He didn't even know how he had gotten here; but if leaping from a cliff had had anything to do with it, Rith would rather stay in England than try that avenue to return to his own world.

But working in Crighton's shop gave him hardly any time to miss his home, or wonder about his family and friends - and the only quiet he had at night brought him nightmares. He preferred to fill his mind with the discoveries he'd made of England; how people walked and talked and dressed, what the land was like and what marvelous things filled it.

It was a good land, in many ways, but a bad land in some. Rith supposed that was the way all countries were; even Narnia for all its beauties was far from perfect. But this one had a few things that his magical homeland did not – things that made his eyes open in wonder and his laughter spill out in delight.

He could still feel the thrill that had run through him the first time a lorry had pulled up behind the shop. It was tremendous – almost as large as the train car he'd ridden in, and it moved along with a most wonderful squeaking and rattling and belching of black smoke. Rith had just stood there, outside the back of the shop, broom in hand and mouth wide open. He'd seen motor-cars, of course, and the train station – but this! This was so much bigger, full of power and simply astonishing. Rith wondered how it could move so much weight without a huge engine and firebox like the one the train had.

To his great delight, the lorry came to a steaming stop right in front of the back entrance. It was so large it almost filled up the whole street; granted, the street was more of an alley than anything, but that did nothing to lessen the impact of seeing it parked there like a mountain dumped into a valley.

The door opened in the cab, and the driver stepped down, wiping his hands on his thick canvas overalls and whistling, his music accompanied by the sounds of the lorry's engine humming and clanking as its cylinders came to a halt. He saw Rith, then peered past him into the half-open rear door of the shop.

"Is Samuel aboot, me lad?" he asked, accent stranger than any Rith had encountered yet, though this only came as a passing thought; his imagination was caught up with the lorry.

"But how does it work?" the words flew unbidden past his lips, and Rith knew at once that he should be embarrassed, but he wasn't.

The driver took one look at the boy's sparkling eyes and let loose a wild hoot of laughter, so different from the almost silent chuckles of Crighton that Rith was used to. "Ye've never seen a lorry before, aye? Livin' in London, too... och, I cannae wait to hear where Samuel got you from! Never really liked lads, that one, else he wouldae had a few of his own by now.."

Broom and duties forgotten, Rith had moved to the front of the lorry where he was sure the massive engine was housed. "I've seen them before, of course," he said – he had long since found that there were certain things he was expected to have seen and known, and that pretending to know them did him more good than not. A little lie was not that great a price to pay for the fitting in, which Rith as a foreigner desperately needed to do. "But I'd dearly love to ... to drive it, maybe, or just feel what it's like to be inside such a _large_ thing!" His enjoyment of the train ride to London had been slightly marred by his apprehensions, but when he was able to forget for the tiniest second that he was in another world, he had quite liked the feeling of power and speed the great car had lent him.

His statement earned him another laugh of delight from the driver. "Ye're a mite small yet, lad, t'be thinking o' sitting behind me wheel! But fetch me Samuel and we'll maybe talk aboot it later."

Rith had re-entered the shop with such speed that he almost knocked his master clean over when he finally found him; but he felt that Crighton's wrath was a small price to pay for the moment he sat behind the steering wheel and peeked over the controls and out the cracked front window, thinking that perhaps he liked this new world better than the old one.


	6. Interlude

**_Author's Note:_** I tried to work this into the next chapter, but it just stood by itself somehow. So I present, for your reading pleasure, an interlude and also the next chapter.

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"Mrs. Remfrey! Mrs. Remfrey!"

"Yes, dear, what is it?" Her voice echoed down the long stone staircase.

"Ye didn't lose a ring, did ye?"

"Why, no, I don't think so," she called back, curious now. "Why, have you found something?"

"Right y'are, dearest – a ring, gold and with a sign of some sort, and plenty of dirt in the cracks."

"Wait a moment, I'll be straight down..."

A moment later, both the Remfreys were puzzling over the little treasure.

"Well, it's certainly not mine," Mrs. Remfrey said, examining the object in question. "And you've only got your wedding ring... I wonder whose it could be?"

"Can you make out the markings on it? Looks like a bird of some sort, but my eyes don't work to well these days."

Walking over to a window, Mrs. Remfrey held it up to the light. "It's not a bird; it's a gryphon," she announced after a moment. "A gryphon wearing a crown," she added after a second examination.

Mr. Remfrey stiffened suddenly. "A crowned gryphon, ye say?" he asked, a strange tone entering his voice.

"Yes, dear. Why, do you recognise it?" she asked.

Moving closer to his wife, Mr. Remfrey bent to scrutinize the small ring. "Well ... by Jove! I wonder how this came about?"

Seeing Mrs. Remfrey's puzzlement, he hastened to explain. "My father had a ring with a crowned gryphon on it – he gave it to Frank when he was old enough."

"Oh, George," Mrs. Remfrey patted her husband's arm compassionately. "I'm sorry." Frank and his wife Helen had disappeared years ago, presumably killed by a wild cab driver who had wreaked disaster in London.

"It's all right, dear," Mr. Remfrey said quietly, then resumed his pondering. "I suppose Frank might have lost it here when he came to visit us the first summer we watched this place. Funny that he shouldn't notice..."

"Pity he hadn't any son to pass it on to," Mrs. Remfrey said thoughtfully.

Mr. Remfrey nodded. "Aye, such a shame... such a shame. Man like him deserves more than to have his family's ring dropped in the dust..."


	7. Scars

**_Author's Note:_** A chapter in which Rith becomes a little upset, and does some thinking, which perhaps might not be such a bad thing to do on occaision.

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**Chapter Six: Scars**

_Two years, _Rith thought angrily, slamming the door behind him and dumping his load carelessly onto the workbench. Such an action would have quickly elicited a violent response from Crighton, had he been there. But right now Rith couldn't care less about the pine siding he was hauling. He wouldn't even mind if he knocked over a bucket of the shop's trademark wood finish.

Rith just wanted to go home.

_Two years,_ he thought again, pounding an angry fist against the unforgiving hard table. He'd been in this world for two entire years, and what had he done? Nothing. Survived, managed to get three meals a day and a place to sleep at night. True, he had it better than a lot of people did – he had a job, and though it didn't pay anything he knew that if he pursued it for seven or eight more years he might eventually become a full partner with Crighton.

Seven or eight more years. No, he'd wasted enough time here, doing nothing. It was time to move on – there was more that he could do here, he was sure of it. There was more than this miserable little existence where his only friends were humans and the only trees were dead ones.

Rith didn't rightly know what he would do if he left London – find a nice place in the forest somewhere, and sulk, he supposed – but anything seemed better than the dull day-to-day grind of life in the shop and free time with friends who didn't really know him at all. There were wonders in this world, certainly, but they'd grown old fast – moving pictures, telegraphs, telephones, motor cars and airplanes – Rith would trade them all for a trip to the Dancing Lawn once again.

This world was just so _dead_.

Dead people walked around like the lives they were living could be called life, which was nothing more than a routine utterly devoid of joy. There was fun, and plenty of it, and there were good times, but Rith hadn't yet seen joy.

After one particularly frustrating day at the shop – he'd ruined an edging on an vanity – Rith had said as much to Crighton. What do people live for here, he'd asked, thoughtlessly falling back into his otherworldly accent, though his words were still colloquial. Do they just try to survive every day, or make more money, or become more important?

Ah, the carpenter had said wisely, you're asking the most important question in the entire world, Rith.

Rith replied, with a touch of sarcasm, that he supposed it might very well be that way.

"You wouldn't be the first person to ask, my boy," Crighton said. A year ago Rith had been pleased when his employer had started referring to him this way, but now the mention of it made him bristle. "We all wonder about these things from time to time."

Rith held his tongue with much effort; he wished Crighton would just say what he meant to say and get over it, and if he didn't have the answer he should out and admit it. But it was Crighton's way to be almost as slow in conversation as he was in work; slow and careful and crafting all the time.

"The question you're really asking, though you don't know it, is, is there a God?" he continued.

Rith thought he ought to know better than Crighton what he was really asking, but refrained from saying so. No, what he really wanted to ask was, why could he find no joy in England, when it was so readily available in Narnia? But of course the carpenter could never know of Narnia; Rith himself had started to forget.

"For if there is a God, there's a purpose for all this living we're doing; if not, well – we haven't anything and we're just stumbling around in the dark trying to find our next meal. And if there is a reason for all this, we've got our work cut out for us – only more of a commitment than work, more of an oath to fulfill, like soldiers in the army, all of us working together to do something great."

Past politeness, Rith simply nodded dismally, though he really wanted to shout out the raw pain he was feeling, show his ripped soul to Crighton and tell him that no, it wasn't true, he'd been there, been a soldier, taken the oath, and ... and ... broken it, broken it and dishonored his country and his kingdom, then run away from his duties as a warrior, prince, and man.

He knew that no matter how much he wanted to return to Narnia, Narnia would never accept him back. If there was a Narnia to go back to...

Rith let out a despairing shout and slammed his fists down on the workbench again. Crighton was right, no matter how much Rith hated the fact. He was stumbling around in the dark, just working to keep himself alive and fed. What was the point in all that?

Rith jerked open the back door of he shop and walked briskly down the street, head lowered and angry, not caring that he hadn't locked the door even though it was well after dark. It was a Sunday night; Crighton was away at evening service, with all of the other wonderful hard-working people who were so blessed by God.

Blessed by God. Rith laughed, hard and bitter. Of course they were blessed; they had good businesses and large families and protested the evils of Parliament. They didn't live every day knowing that they could be somewhere else, somewhere better where there was vibrant life and magic in every moment. So certainly every extra shilling that made it into their accounts was an ample blessing, something that could buy them another piece of stuffing to fill their empty lives.

Blessed. Rith wished, not for the first time, that he had simply been allowed to die on that beach. Then he wouldn't have these memories to live with, this Other Rith that he'd outgrown years ago but still came back to haunt him with what could have been if only he'd made the right choice. It was the prince to his craven, and he hated it, hated what he had been just because it made him see how vile he was now.

Rith had come a long way in two years, but that did not mean he liked the way he'd come. He thought he should be proud of how fast he'd adapted to the culture, learned the ways of this world, but more often than not he found himself doing something that would be considered unthinkable in Narnia.

Quitting work a few minutes early, for example, or only doing what Crighton told him to do – never more, but sometimes less. Maybe he was growing up, losing the idealism of youth, he rationalized, and eventually he'd managed to forget a little, until he no longer felt the nagging prick of conscience. Oh, Rith had done quite a bit of growing up.

But right now he felt like a little child; surely he should be beyond tantrums by now – he was fourteen, and a man!

Maybe that was what was the matter, Rith thought with a start as he stopped abruptly at a corner lamp-post. He was fourteen years old last fortnight.

Memories long abandoned flooded his mind – pictures of his older brother's fourteenth birthday, when he and his sister were just five and ten. Although his memory had grown faint with under-use, Rith could still recall the sheer wonder and awe he'd felt when his brother had been knighted. He'd been jealous, too, of all the attention Ri'hael had received from their parents – and the whole assembly, too, though by the colour on his brother's cheeks Rith didn't think it was all that pleasant.

All that aside, Rith still sensed that something had changed after that moment. Maybe Ri'hael stood a little taller, or spoke a little nobler, or smiled a little kinder. Perhaps his perception was affected by tales of knights and ladies and quests, and perhaps not. But he'd always looked forward to the day when he, too, would join one of Narnia's Orders. He knew it might not be for quite a long time – though knights were often made young in Narnia, they never took oath before they were ready and as Crown Prince, Ri'hael had simply had to be ready earlier than most.

Rith had been ready, once, two years ago – but when the test came, he had failed.

No man of honour, no knight would turn his back on his country in its hour of greatest need.

No prince ran from death.

Rith had been running for so long, and there was no end in sight. When he was tired, when he felt frustrated or trapped in a corner he simply walked away, just like he was doing now, walking down a dark street at the middle of night, not caring who or what came his way. But he was not particularly worried; fighting skills were something he had lost little of, and he was confident that he could take care of himself wherever he was.

He could take care of himself, and so he knew that when he heard scuffling and muffled cursing the next alley over he should not go there. Rith sighed and lightened his footstep to avoid being noticed; even though it was very unlikely that he would be, he had long ago made it a habit to take nothing for granted in London at night.

But then his back stiffened and his foot paused as a faint cry reached his ear, a call of distress and summons for aid.

The voice was high and scared; a young girl, perhaps.

For a moment the cry hung in the air, haunting his heart.

Then it was silenced by rough hands, and Rith turned and walked slowly away, already forgetting that it had ever existed.

**Up Next: **_Not Getting Over_, where a miracle happens and you finally get to see where I'm going with this story.


	8. Not Getting Over

**Chapter Seven: Not Getting Over**

It was a day like any other, another meaningless circle of twenty-four hours, when the extraordinary happened. But one is seldom given any preparation for events such as these, and Rith was no exception.

He was busily sorting planks from the week's wood shipment when the lorry pulled up. Rith groaned; lorries at the beginning of the week always meant more wood – the good lorries came at the end of the week, to cart away the finished projects to the clients who had commissioned them. Though his hands were covered in callouses from two years of shop-work, Rith still hated handling the rough, splinter-filled wood. Crighton and his new hired boy, Dave, did not mind as much, perhaps because the weekly ritual of bringing in the wood reminded Rith of a dryad's funeral. Dave, the elven-year-old son of one of Crighton's clients, had once asked Rith why he disliked the carrying, as it was by far one of the easiest things they did at the shop. Unable to explain and frustrated at the small boy's persistent questioning, Rith had rudely told the boy to go away.

Crighton knew that Dave could be trying at times, what with his consistent chatter, but he had still kept a wary eye on the interaction between his two young workers. Rith, as the elder, was held to a higher standard, not only in the quality and quantity of his work but also in behaviour. Crighton knew that Rith tended to be terse and stiff-mannered at the start of the week, but this did not prevent the carpenter from recruiting him for extra chores.

And so it was that Rith heard his master's voice calling him out to the back street, after the lorry's engine had sputtered to a stop. Rith shouted that he was coming, and took a minute to retrieve his heavy gloves before walking out the back door, where Crighton met him.

"Special order come in," the carpenter explained as he went inside to clear a space for the new wood. He was always meticulous about the placement of materials in his shop and would never entrust the organization of planks to the boys.

Rith gave a curt nod of understanding and went to open the rear doors of the lorry. He wondered for an instant where Dave was when unpleasant tasks called, but brushed off the thought. The younger boy was probably watching the front shop as he usually did early mornings – he only tended to be useful after nine thirty, when his mind joined his body in the waking world.

Rith tugged on the latch and flung open the door to be greeted by the pleasant smell of fresh-cut wood. He always liked this moment – looking into the darkness of the lorry's interior, he could almost pretend that the scent came from real, live trees, not dead and dried ones. The light spice in the air came from an apple tree this time, he thought, and it was delicious. Images sprang unbidden to his mind, summers long ago with his sister and brother, running through the orchard-wood feasting on unripe apples because they could not wait for the harvest in fall. And then there was the festival of the Guardian-tree in spring-time, when all Narnia would gather among the first pale wisps of green grass and remember the Lord Digory's quest to protect the land from Evil.

Rith also remembered the night that tree had fallen.

Brushing aside the thoughts both pleasant and unpleasant, he reached in and grabbed the boards.

Electricity ran through his hands as a sensation he had not felt in a long time, in two years, entered them. Rith's eyes widened as his hands reflexively dropped the wood.

The plank clattered to the floor of the lorry and was barely prevented from landing right on top of Rith's toes.

Rith narrowed his eyes as he examined the part of the wood that was illuminated by the morning light. It was apple, he saw, rough-cut and newly dried. There was nothing visible that could account for what he had felt, besides perhaps an exceptionally fine grain.

Cautiously, he bent down and touched it again. The same life he had felt before coursed through his fingers.

But how could this be?

Rith knew what he felt, yet he was almost certain that his senses were betraying him.

What was in this wood, what had been in this tree, that the life of Narnia flowed in its veins?

"Rith! Rith!" Crighton's shout pulled him out of his confusion, reminding him of his duty – and of a potential source of answers.

Rith stacked the boards, savoring the sensation it gave him, and carefully lifted them into the shop. When the last load was in, he casually asked Crighton where the wood had come from, and what was to be done with it.

"Young professor, just got tenure, wants it made into a wardrobe," the carpenter answered. "The wood's from a tree of his – must have some sort of sentimental value, though it is a very fine specimen."

"Can I help make it?" Rith blurted out, sounding entirely too eager but hardly caring.

Crighton gave him a strange look; it had been a long time since Rith had shown that much interest in any of his projects. "I don't see why not," he answered, and a large and rather foolish grin materialized on the younger man's features.

Rith wasn't sure how a Narnian tree had happened to belong to a professor, but he was entirely certain that this was the case. What else could the tree be? He had worked with woods from all over this world and none yet had so completely reminded him of his homeland.

Just by laying his hands on the planks he could conjure up the memories of his past life, the joyous times spent in the glades and meadows of Narnia. He felt, for the first time in so very long, something he had never known outside of Narnia – the feeling one has while the last note of a symphony lingers in the air, or when a great and mighty Hero enters a story, or when Love arrives to rule forever.

Rith thought once that perhaps this feeling did not exist in England; yet here it was, and now that it was here it captivated him and left him starving for more. He thought perhaps that he'd gotten over it, didn't need it any more – yet nothing could be farther from the truth.

And then suddenly Rith remembered the reason for that feeling, and it was a name that sent shivers of anticipation and fingers of dread down his spine.

It was Aslan – Aslan the Great Lion whom he had once loved and always feared – and at the moment Rith could not say whether his knees trembled from joy or terror, but he knew now that there was more than just the remnants of Narnia that drew him to the wood of the apple tree.


	9. Waiting In My Room For You

**Author's Note: **As some of you have already guessed, the theme song for this story is _'The Older I Get'_ by - guess who - _Skillet_. I'll post a YouTube link to it on my profile page eventually... it's an amazing song that was part of the inspiration for this story. Especially for this chapter, which is where things start getting interesting.

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**Chapter Eight: Waiting In My Room For You**

Few things in his life had ever consumed Rith as entirely as the wardrobe did. He'd been an idealistic youngster in his day, a prince in every way and dedicated into following in the paths of his father and brother. They all had been starry-eyed children, naively seeing the world in stark contrasts of dark and light, and Rith had been almost as bad as his sister. Oh, he'd done wonderful, terrible things in the name of Narnia and justice. But none of those acts of valour and seeming self-sacrifice could begin to approach the intensity with which he threw himself into this task.

Rith couldn't explain it – well, he might be able to if he ever thought about it – but accepted it entirely and not without some gratitude. Just being able to run his hands over the grain of the wood and carefully smooth out the roughened edges stirred in him thoughts and feelings long forgotten and always craved. He cringed when he took a saw to the fine material and blanched if a single cut deviated from a perfect line.

Crighton saw this obsession but, after a few initial attempts to maintain a semblance of control over the making of the wardrobe, soon gave it up as hopeless. His apprentice's fascination actually pleased him; Rith had been so bored – no, not bored, uninterested – in shop work for the past year, and it was good to see some life in the dark eyes again.

Young Dave was puzzled by this change in Rith, and vocalized his thoughts quite frequently. "Why are you working on that cupboard so early for?" he'd mumble incoherently as Rith thundered down the narrow stairs at dawn each day.

"Wardrobe," Rith would reply equally fuzzily, and slam the shop door closed with a noise that Crighton said could wake the dead.

"Rith, come watch the shop," Dave, hovering in the work-room doorway would beg the older boy. "I'm tired of watching the dust settle and then sweeping it off again. I want to do something else. Can I help with the sawing?"

This would earn the boy a violent reply in the negative, usually accompanied by a gentler statement that Dave really ought to watch the front, in case someone came in wanting to buy something, or should go ask Crighton if there were something else that needed doing.

And then one day Dave asked the real question: "Rith, what are you thinking about?" He found it quite curious how Rith's face suddenly took on a soft, far-off expression that almost made Dave want to cry; it was the look his father got when he was speaking of his mother, long dead, or of the old country he had left years ago. It startled Dave – it was the look of a much older man, and did not belong on the face of a boy.

Then Rith looked away, and picked up a tool thoughtfully, and used his strange speech, which Dave had only heard rarely and on abnormal occasions. And he said he was remembering, and Dave was curious and could not help timidly asking what exactly Rith was recalling.

"Home," Rith said, and there was a longing power in the words that silenced both boys, and they stood there, Rith stroking the wood and Dave fingering the sawdust, both remembering things lost.

Home, Rith thought as he meticulously nailed the walls together. Home, the little villa in the Great Forest, he sighed while polishing the brass door-hinges and carefully fitting the knobs. Home with his friends on Seventhday, lounging under the canopy of leaves and playfully planning a midnight swim in the Sea, or an excursion to the far-off Desert, so shadowy in their minds but real in their dreams. Home, where his mother would kiss him good-night and his brother would kick him under the table to keep his giggles from giving away a prank on his sister. Home where, on the first of each season, the family would gather to give thanks to the Lion who had birthed the land and its creatures.

It was pain and pleasure to summon these memories, but Rith had gone without them for so long that his parched soul eagerly drank the sweet though it was tinged with bitterness. And when he was filled and satisfied, the remembrance flowed from his hands to the wood he shaped beneath them.

Now Rith was grateful for the endless lessons in carving that Crighton had forced upon him, the careful tedium he'd endured for hours upon hours. He had always asked himself and his teacher if he would ever use these skills; now he knew the answer and blessed Crighton for it every minute. The figures will take shape of their own accord, Crighton had told him, the story is already in the wood; it is up to you to uncover it.

And oh, the story that Rith saw! It was beautiful, indescribably complex yet stunningly simple – the story of a song, of a magic tree and enchanted apple, an evil conquered once and for all, joy everlasting and love beyond measure, all in the form of a Lion. Images that were but vague ideas in his mind became sharp and solid in the scented wood – pictures of the past and visions of things that perhaps would never come yet lived in the hearts of all they that hope.

Little Dave watched in wonder as shavings fell beneath Rith's knife, which carefully peeled away the outer layers of wood to reveal forests rich with vibrant life, rivers inhabited by the fantastic, and a land that could exist only in his dreams. "What _are_ they?" he asked Rith, blue eyes wide.

And so Rith would explain, carefully pointing out the difference between a birch and a beech dryad, or showing him the constellations that were not to be found in London skies, or telling him why the River-god and the Merking never spoke to each other. Thus the wardrobe grew, wrapped in the history of another world.

And why, Dave asked, was there a great tree on the front of the door? Wouldn't a dragon like St. George's be far better? What, after all, could possibly be so significant about a tree?

"'Tis not merely a tree," Rith replied, and Dave noted with a sigh that he was using his old speech again, and if the younger boy was to understand it at all, he would have to listen carefully. "It's a symbol of protection; nay – more than a symbol. An essence of protection, I suppose, for it did truly guard the land from evil. Why, on a warm spring day when the breeze carried far, it is said that no creature with even the slightest intent of harm could approach it for leagues!"

Then there was something special indeed about the tree, Dave concluded, seeming proud of himself for figuring it out.

"Special, to be sure! They say the seed of it was planted by a stranger from another world – imagine that!" - and for a moment Rith was silent, but then he gave a quiet chuckle and continued - "from another world, just a lad really, not much older than you, and he defeated an Evil in a far-off garden and brought back the apple's seed to plant this tree. And it grew quickly, within days, and ever while it stood the land was safe."

A shadow passed over his face then, and Dave asked if it was always that way. Rith shook his head, sadly, but then said bravely that not all things, even magic ones, last forever.

Was there anything, inquired the younger boy, that never ended at all?

Rith thought for a while as he carved a lion's paw for the wardrobe to stand on, and said that he thought so.

Then what was it? Dave eagerly demanded.

Rith shrugged and reached for a sandpaper, then cautiously asked if perhaps Dave thought Lions might last forever?

And Dave, looking in awe at the warm wooden mane and strong Lion's face centered atop the wardrobe, said that they might.

A week later, Rith rubbed the final polish into the fine wood and stood the wardrobe on its lion's feet.

It was late at night, and the small shop was illuminated by twin kerosene lamps. Rith's eyes were heavy but he knew he was too excited to sleep. Checking the brass hinges one last time, Rith finally deemed his work complete, then stepped back to look.

It was magnificent. In the flickering lamplight the carved figures of fauns danced along the sides, now hidden in the forest, now frolicking with the dryads by a River whose water moved. Stars glittered overhead, promising peace, while the great Tree guarded the doors. Above all, the foundation and the head, was the Lion, serene and noble and loving, the Aslan of Rith's childhood. There was a magic in the air that was more than just the satisfaction of seeing a work completed; it was something more...

Almost reverently, Rith approached the wardrobe. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he could look up into the Lion's face, smell the intoxicating scents of home, almost hear the wind in the Narnian woods...

And perhaps... perhaps...

Rith didn't even dare think the words, but oh how he hoped! Some part of him just knew that if there was one way to go home, one way to undo what he'd done, who he'd become, and have a second chance...

Hardly daring to breathe, Rith closed his eyes and opened the door. The very door he'd spent hours carving and polishing, that now held an inexplicable power now that it was in its finished form, the very door that might – just might – be his gateway into the past.

Enclosed in Narnian walls, Rith could feel the electricity, the beautiful presence of magic that he had sensed each time he walked in among the blessed Trees or bathed in the enchanted Waters. He took one small step forward, and then another, and allowed a small blissful smile of a wanderer lost but now found appear on his lips. And Rith stretched out his arms.

His fingertips collided with the solid back of the wardrobe with a hollow _thunk_.

Slowly, slowly, not believing, barely breathing, Rith opened his eyes.

He was in a newly-made wardrobe in a small London shop, late at night. There had been no magic, no metamorphosis. There would be no miracle tonight, no second try.

Rith sank to his knees, and pounded his fists dully against the bottom of the wardrobe as he wept. Weeping for his folly and his false hope lost.

But most of all, weeping because the Lion he thought he loved had now twice betrayed him, and because now there would be no going back ever again.


	10. Not To Fight

**_Author's Note:_ **Sorry for the delay, I was away without computer access. I also feel rather outdated posting something that is not the Susan/Caspian that seems to have taken over the fandom lately...soon I'm going to get nostalgic for the good old days of sibling fluff and Susanfic.

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**Chapter Nine: Not to Fight**

Rith stared down at the scarred table, at the six identical sets of papers piled in the middle. He wished he could burn them all. Looking around at the downcast faces of the seven young men gathered around the circular table, he could tell that they, too, wanted the same thing. Well, all but one, that is.

"Come now, it's not so bad, is it?" Tom asked, but even his tone was flat and unsure. Rith glared at his friend – or the one he once had called a friend.

"Great Scott, Tom, spare us the lecture!" Geoff burst out from his seat across from Rith. His face was patched red with anger, and the alcohol probably hadn't helped him much.

The group fell silent again, and Rith refused to think that perhaps this would be the last time they'd ever be together. Not that he cared that much, no – but it had been nice to fit in for a while, to have a place to pretend that he was a regular Englishman like the rest. He wasn't ready to let this end just yet. Change came all too fast, and he wasn't ready for his life to be redirected another time.

"Fifteen days. I suppose I'll have to let Sara know soon." The voice was hardly more than a sigh, devoid of its usual Irish accent. Rith could feel the other men nodding sympathetically at Patrick – well, Sean actually, but they all called him Patrick because he was so typically Irish – as they remembered their own loved ones they'd be saying good-bye to.

"I'll have to go back to Norfolk before..."

"Wonder how long it'll take the telegram to get there."

"Called the old man this morning. The sister wasn't happy. Broke down over the telephone."

"I was going to propose to Susie this next month..."

"My brother's going to come from America to see me off. Maybe I should just go back with him, draft or no."

"Don't say that, you idiot!" Tom interjected quickly. "You know there's no avoiding it."

"Or is there?" Geoff raised an eyebrow, then lowered his voice. "I hear tell of a man hereabouts, he'll get you to America or Norway or someplace else, if you have the right... credentials."

A tense silence fell. Rith was listening hard now, heart beating in his chest, wondering if this was really true. But all he heard was the low, dreary mumbles that seemed to have taken over the pub these last few weeks, and the pit-pat of grey rain falling on the London streets outside.

"It's not worth it," a tousle-haired blond declared after a moment. "You know it won't work."

"Easy for you to say," retorted Geoff. "_You_ haven't been drafted."

The other lad glared at him. _Hypocrite_, thought Rith. _I bet he's never been so glad that _his_ name wasn't on the list._

"I'd fight, too, if I didn't have to attend the University," he said, but his voice lacked real conviction.

"Well, wouldn't we all," grumbled another, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "But we're not all as... _burdened_... as you."

Rith read the unspoken message. Most of them would gladly attend university instead of working ten hours a day to support themselves – and sometimes their families.

"Yeah, you go and study how to end the war, and we'll fight it. Don't want the scholar to get his robes mussed, now do we?" Geoff was being more belligerent than usual, but this time no one objected. They were all angry to some degree – it hadn't been _their_ decisions to join the war.

The blond muttered a curse, and Geoff leaped to his feet, hands finding the younger man's collar in a matter of seconds. "Don't you say that to me," he hissed. "We're already cursed, you hear? Already doomed, so you just shut it, hear, and let us die in peace!"

Rith shuddered, as did some of the others around him. Whatever illusions they'd had about the cruelty of war were now shattered by harsh reality, and none of them wanted to hear more of it.

"It's not so _bad_," Tom insisted again, as Rith quietly laughed at his naiveté.

"Not so _bad_," Rith mimicked quietly, bitterly. "Home by Christmas. Two months ago."

Tom glanced at him. "See, it'll not be so long then, before it's really over. We'll only be out there for a few months at most, then we'll come back home."

The picture his words painted was so tantalising, so... innocent, harmless. Too ideal to be real. But just for a second Rith let himself imagine...

A cheerful send-off to the waving of the Union Jack and the blare of trumpets, a few weeks' training at some North England field, boarding a ship to cross the Channel, maybe a month's combat somewhere on mainland Europe... the end of the war, victory celebrations in some foreign capitol, and triumphant return home...

An enemy conquered, a land saved... everything as it should be.

_As it should have been._

No courier in the night telling you your parents were dead, no confused attempts to gather an army, no shocking realisation that your troops were not enough and no one would send you aid, no death of a brother, no fighting in vain as evil overran the land, no last desperate battle, no fear in your sister's eyes as she watched you die... no trusted Protector deserting you forever and laughing at your defeat.

Rith knew he could not face this again. He was no Knight, no Prince, no Man – and so he could not fight.

He lifted his head, shaking off the memories, and found the other men staring at him. He blinked stupidly; had he spoken aloud?

"Rith, you _have_ to. You've been _drafted_." The flat voice spoke flat, unwelcome truth. "It's not like we have a choice."

Bitter, bitter words from a saddened soul.

"I won't fight," Rith said through clenched teeth, knowing it to be true.

"A bit late to decide to be a conscientious objector," Geoff commented sarcastically.

Rith glared at him. "I _won't_ fight," he snapped. "I _can't_."

"Scared, are we?" Geoff taunted, but it fell flat. _As if they all aren't terrified out of their minds._

Rith shot him a superior glare that spoke of confidence in his skills, but didn't dignify Geoff's comment with a reply.

"Come on, Rith, you know where dodging the draft will get you," Tom said. "Five miles away, in the Tower, that's where. And it's not so bad, truly! Just a few months, just a little while. Something to tell the grandkids. 'I fought in the War, the Great War, and I was there when we defeated the Axis.' Now isn't that something? A chance to make a difference, get out of these factories and shops and _change_ something, make it better. Why, it's an honour to serve the Crown, isn't it? We'll get to do something for England, after all she's done for us." But there was an uncertainty in the voice. Two months ago the conviction had been solid and genuine – but now, in the face of the draft, everything changed.

Rith wanted to laugh at his friend's innocence. Once it had been an endearing quality, a relief from the world's duplicity, but now it only spoke of ignorance. England wasn't Rith's country. He owed it nothing.

"Think about it, Rith," Tom pleaded one last time, and Rith couldn't help but be touched by Tom's concern. "We can really _do_ something. We can win the War to end all wars!"

Any feeling Rith might have had for Tom's arguments evaporated instantly. Before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, chair falling to the floor behind him.

"We already fought that war," he hissed. "And we lost."

Furious, he snatched up his draft papers and tore them in half. Shocked faces stared up at him, forcing home the significance of what he'd just done.

Rith didn't care. He wasn't going to fight and die for a country not his own, after he'd fought for one that was his, truly his, and been deserted by his promised Guardian when he needed Him the most. And not once, but two times...

Crumpling up the papers in an angry hand, Rith turned on his heel and stalked out the door, into the cold grey drizzle.

Once more he was walking away from all he'd ever known. But he didn't care, because no matter what, he would not fight.


	11. Time Heals All Wounds

**_Author's Note: _**Welcome to Chapter 10, in which (gasp) a canon character or two appears, and people start to think that I can't remember my own character's names... and to which reviews would be a welcome addition :)

**

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Chapter Ten: Time Heals All Wounds

Rhys smoothed his rumpled jacket and stepped off the train, weary from the long journey. Waving over one of the ever-present porters, he indicated his luggage and then leaned against a nearby lamppost. _Not as young as I used to be_, he reminded himself needlessly. Still, he prided himself of his relatively good shape. Compared to many of his peers, he was still young and sprightly – most probably because he, the confirmed bachelor, cooked his own food. No cheerful Welshwoman to tempt him with rich cakes and creams, or even make sure the toast was not blackened, other men teased him.

Rhys didn't care. They were middle-aged and settled comfortably down, and so was he. Truth to be told, he was still the odd one in the small 'neighborhood' that included barely fifty people within fifteen miles. Some knew he'd had a bit of a wild youth, got into a little trouble with the government, and traveled a bit, mostly to avoid the authorities. Now he was a well-established accountant, the brains behind the tiny local bank. He didn't wear a suit, though, or work at maths in a tiny office as they thought. Most days he just stopped in to wave to the teller and pick up his projects for the day before returning to his homestead.

The lovely thing about Wales, Rhys thought not for the first time, was the amazing amount of privacy one could have. His home, for example – a comfortable little cottage set among acres and acres of forest. Though the trees weren't quite as marvelous as the ones he'd once known – but then, this was age speaking; everything always seemed better in retrospect – but they were still very nice. Some of the neighbor children thought it odd that such an old man should spend so much time wandering the woods, and thought him fey. Rhys didn't mind- it kept them mostly away from his property, though the looks he would get when they thought he wasn't watching could be disconcerting.

The sudden appearance of a face in front of his own startled Rhys back into the present. That the face only held one eye only added to his alarm. War veteran, Rhys knew, and something between compassion and disdain washed across his face.

"Where d'yeh want 'em, mistah?"

Blinking, Rhys quickly flagged a cab and allowed the porter to deposit the bags in the boot. Handing him a tip, Rhys stepped inside. He was to meet a company representative – his superior – at his London address, and he gave the directions to the cabby, who promptly steered the aging vehicle into the roar and bustle of London traffic.

Rhys was not surprised to feel the usual mixture of nostalgia and bitterness as he watched the once-familiar streets whiz by. He'd come here every once and a while out of necessity, on business trips like this one, but he'd never lived there after the draft. He'd never been a city-dweller, he knew. Voyages into the more obscure parts of Europe had only confirmed that. Crowds and concrete just made him nervous...

Strange, though, that he should be feeling so apprehensive this time around. Last time, coming to London after the devastation of the Blitz, had shaken him. But now – everything was back to normal, wasn't it?After almost a decade, it should be...

Perhaps... this was something... different. Another spectre of the past come to haunt him, but one from beyond the Blitz or the war before that...

Rhys shuddered and halted his train of thought. He was through with all that; he'd taken another name and become another man.

He wouldn't go back.

The cab came to a halt in front of a small townhome. Rhys, caught off guard for a moment, stayed seated. He had assumed this was his colleague's business address; he had only rarely met associates in their own homes to conduct matters of the office.

The cabby made an impatient noise. Rhys quickly paid and exited the vehicle, brushing past a surprised workman on his way to the gate. The latch was a simple one, and in the time it took Rhys to walk to the door and knock, his surprise was buried under the guise of a successful accountant.

The door opened, they shook hands, and the meeting commenced.

* * *

Four hours later, after a productive discussion and delicious tea, Rhys stepped back out through the gate. Sighing at his stupidity, both for not commissioning a cab to return for him and for eating too much chocolate cake, he began the walk to the bus stop. Curse these fine London neighborhoods, so far away from decent public transportation...

"Great Scott, Peter, you can't be serious!" A young voice not ten meters away exclaimed. Startled, Rhys paused for a moment and then continued on. The workmen, he assumed, who had made a moderate amount of noise during his meeting. Somehow it wouldn't surprise him to find that they'd finished at the same time he had. Not before, of course – unthinkable that he should be able to have a meeting without all sorts of banging and whatever else going on outdoors – but now that it was over, there was no longer any need for distracting noises in the neighborhood.

"I don't rightly know, Ed, but I... I... it's like the dinner all over again!"

Their voices faded as Rhys continued down the street. He let his mind return to pondering the directives he'd received, and so did not hear the running footsteps until their source was beside him.

"Excuse me, sir!" The voice was young and excited, but there was a gravity to them that stopped Rhys in his footsteps.

Turning, he saw the workman he'd brushed past on his way to his meeting. For a moment he tried to reconcile the voice with the appearance of the man – young, fairly dirty, in clothes a size too big and boots a size too small – but then he gave it up, settling for a polite but wary greeting.

"If you don't mind my saying so, you have a rather distinctive look about you." The gaze that met his own was wise but cautious, measuring him as if deciding how far to trust him. Rhys was struck speechless; if anything, it should be he who was taking the measure of the other man!

The workman examined Rhys for another moment, the apparently made his decision. Tilting his head slightly, he spoke with an immense self-assurance that held no arrogance, but extreme confidence. "You, sir, have a Narnian look about you. I am Peter Pevensie, one of the seven Friends of Narnia."

Rhys's world spun to a halt.

_You, sir, have a Narnian look about you._

How could he have known? How could anyone know? Rhys looked in the mirror every morning – there was nothing that differed him from his Welsh neighbors, besides his light hair. His ring, the last physical link he had to ...that place ... he had thrown away. His accent had been erased by the years; his mannerisms were entirely mainstream British... so how could this workman know?

_You, Rhys, have a Narnian look about you._

Fey, they called him fey... but surely that was only due to his odd lifestyle, something this young man knew nothing about. Or maybe it was something else, something indefinable that he had been unable to eradicate from his life. The dryad-blood of his ancestors...

Rhys inwardly scoffed at himself. Did he truly believe that anymore? Descended from a tree-woman? Prince of a land where animals talked and waters lived? Fairy tales, that's all they were, just his imagination... surely... surely... just stories...

_You, Rith, have a Narnian look about you._

Rith. That had been his name. Rith.

With that one syllable, the walls he'd erected around his past crumbled. There was no denying it any more; it _had_ existed, it _had_ happened. He may have forgotten... but that did not make it any less the truth. It did not lessen the pain, either.

A wound that had not been examined in years started again to bleed – and it was just as fresh as it had been nigh twenty-five years ago. Betrayal, bitterness, rage – all there, all exactly the same. What good would dragging it all out into the open again do him?

"I'm terribly sorry, young man, but I haven't the foggiest," Rhys said, trying his best to hide the emotion in his voice.

The workman – Peter Pevensie – frowned, disbelieving. Rhys turned away and started to leave, not knowing quite where he was going, only that he had to leave...

A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Perhaps then," said Peter, in the tone of a much older man, "you might at least be able to tell me what this is."

He unfolded his hand, and there, amid the faint lines of dirt, lay three rings.

One was bright green, the other bright yellow, both radiating a power that Rhys had not felt before. And the third...

The third was a gold ring engraved with a crest. Unthinking, Rith reached out to take it, to turn it over in his palm. It seemed no different than the last time he'd seen it – King Frank's crest was still there, and so was the extra band the smith had attached so that a young boy could wear it...it was the sign of his house.

His family. Dead and gone, every one of them, forgotten by the land they had so long served...

Or perhaps not. This man, this Peter, was at least fifteen years younger than Rith himself. That might mean ...

Slowly, Rith looked up to meet the knowing eyes gazing down at him. "Well met, Peter Pevensie," he said quietly.

"My name is Rith. I am the last of the line of King Frank. Could you tell me... what became of my family?"


	12. Could Have Been

**Chapter Eleven: Could Have Been**

They sat in a private booth, two workmen and a businessman. Their tea had long ago grown cold, and no one was really interested in the scones that sat untouched on a plate in the center of the table. It was not an unusual scene – a very British one, to be sure, despite the fact that Narnia was the topic of discussion.

Rith found his mind reeling as he was told the veritable history of his country, from the day of Creation to far past the death of his loved ones. Since they hadn't known where or when exactly Rith had come from, Peter and Edmund had started at the beginning, telling him briefly of Digory Kirke and Polly Plummer, who had come to Charn and then Narnia with the aid of magic rings. The rings themselves – sets of green and yellow ones – were in the Pevensies' possession.

"But we'll explain why later," Edmund had said. "Right now it'd be best to get on with the story."

They had confirmed that King Frank had indeed come from England – he had owned a hansom and a horse at the turn of the century.

"We know that this was his ring," Peter explained, indicating the one from Rith's childhood, "but we weren't really sure how it came here. You see, the Professor (that's the Lord Digory from the stories, Rith) inherited it from King Frank's brother, who lives somewhere in Cornwall."

"A George Remfrey," Edmund supplied.

Somehow, Rith was not surprised.

"Yes, that's the chap," Peter continued. "The Professor kept in touch with Frank's family after he didn't come back from Narnia, so I suppose that's why they gave it to him. For some reason he buried it in the same spot as the magic rings, back before he sold the townhouse. I suppose you recognized for more than the crest, though?"

Rith answered that he had, in fact, and went on to explain how the Remfrey's came to have the ring.

That mystery cleared up, Peter began to tell of how his sister Lucy had stepped through a magic wardrobe one day, to find a land held in enchantment, where it was always winter and never Christmas -

"A wardrobe?" Rith interrupted, and asked curiously for a description.

And so Edmund said there were carved Narnian trees on the door, and a Lion's head at the top center.

"So it _was_ magic after all," Rith said, wondering. "It really did work..." _But why didn't it work for me? _Was it possible that only fate had denied his only chance of return? Or perhaps it was something else... Rith started to answer Peter and Edmund's curious questions as to how he knew of the wardrobe, and did not have time to think of much else while their exclamations went on.

When things quieted – relatively – Peter continued the tale of how he and his siblings had met Aslan and defeated the White Witch and her armies, and established the Golden Age of Narnia.

_How is it then_, Rith wondered, _that after all is lost in the most tragic way, when there is not even a hope __of light beyond the darkness, a renewal can come that makes everything brighter and more wonderful than ever before?_

And he told the brothers of his own family, and how they had fought a war against the same Witch, and been defeated. He asked if there were records in Narnia of this, and they thought for a while.

"I can't recall any at the moment," Peter said finally. "What do you say, Ed? You always had a better head for legends and those sorts of things."

The younger man ran his hand through his hair, and then said slowly that he thought he knew one or two stories from the time. "It's not much," he said regretfully to Rith. "I'm sure there were plenty of stories and histories from back then." He strained to recall the lessons of his old history master. "I think the main thing we were told was that the Tree fell in a storm one night, or was cut – I can't recall which - "

"It was cut, but it was made to look like it fell," Rith supplied.

"Right. And then the Islands always felt that they owed us something terrible for not coming to our aid – isn't that so, Peter? They always were so very cooperative whenever we mentioned it in negotiating – and something about Archenland being tied up with Calormen and not being able to help either. Or maybe that was Galma."

Rith filled them in on the details, and knew that he had been right thirty years ago – hundreds of years ago – when he'd told himself that the Witch would not allow his family's story to remain. It saddened him, but he was already far past grieving.

Peter then continued to tell of how they had come back through the wardrobe and found themselves children once more, and were not very happy about it.

"But this does explain the muddle about times," he told Rith. "Because the Professor is still alive here, even though he was there on Narnia's first day. And then a year after we came back – England time – Aslan called us back into Narnia again." And he began to tell of how a thousand years had passed in Narnia, ad Cair Paravel was in ruins and Narnia under the rule of a usurper and tyrant. Then Edmund told of how, not long after that, he and Lucy and their cousin had sailed to the end of the world with King Caspian the Seafarer, and on and on about the adventures he and his friends had had in Narnia and the lands around it.

Presently there came a time when there was nothing left to be said, and the three men turned to their cups of tea and found them cold. Normally, Rith thought, this wold be the time when they all said good-bye and headed home for the evening, but this time he did not want to go. Anyway, he had missed his train back to Wales. He laughed at himself – in all this talk about other worlds, he had quite forgotten to mind what was happening in his own.

Or perhaps he had been doing just that...

But no, no, Narnia wasn't his home anymore – couldn't be. None of this talking would bring him back to it; he knew he couldn't go back in the same way that the kings knew they couldn't return. So why was he torturing himself with thoughts of what could have been?

"I say, Rith," Peter suddenly exclaimed. "What an idiot I've been, sitting here going on about Narnia and not telling you what Ed and I were doing in this getup in the first place!"

Rith blinked, then deduced that Peter was referring to their workmen's outfits – which closer investigation revealed to be poorly fitting.

"Oh, yes," Edmund took over excitedly. "You see, several nights ago, we and the rest of the Friends of Narnia were having a dinner, and the strangest thing happened..." So began another tale, this one however incomplete, of how a Narnian man appeared to them, and how they all felt that something was terribly wrong in Narnia., and why they needed the Rings.

"And so you see," Peter said, now dreadfully excited, though he still managed to control his voice quite well, "You can go back to Narnia after all. In fact, it might be best if you went – we don't know what's happening there, and Jill and Eustace could probably use all the help they could get. I wonder if this might be the very reason you were sent here all along, so that you could help Narnia out when the time came..."

"Sent here?" Rith couldn't help but exclaim. "I never wanted to be here."

The table was shocked into silence, and the polite businessman in Rith wanted to apologise for his bitter tone, even though in truth he was not at all sorry.

"Well ... I suppose not," Edmund said finally. "But we didn't _want_ to be in Narnia at first, I think; but the fact remains that we were meant to be there, just in the same way you were meant to be here."

"I don't think I was meant to be here," Rith said quietly.

"Lion's mane, why not?" Peter inquired rather brashly.

"Why not? Why not?" Suddenly Rith was angry, so angry. How could this boy possibly understand – he was High King, perfect and noble, honour unsullied and motives pure... everything Rith had always wanted to be, everything he should have been, would have been if it hadn't been for one stupid, stupid mistake, one wrong decision.

The words came pouring out now, tinged with fury and pain, telling the real reasons he'd abandoned the army at the cliff, even though he knew that Edmund, when younger than he, had taken the Witch's wounds rather than run – he who had once been a traitor. He told them how badly he'd hoped, how much he'd longed for a second chance, a return to Narnia. He'd done everything in his power, he'd believed he'd have the blessing of the Lion, and when the time came and everything felt right the Lion had never come, had instead left him alone in utter despair. Twice, not once, the Lion had abandoned him – so how could have He _meant_ for Rith to come here? Did he delight in destroying the lives of His people? And why, even if He did not, could He then call on Rith to do something for Him, who had never done anything in return?

The kings were silent once more, and eventually Rith was, too. He felt drained, emotions spent, and now he wished he had not missed the train back home.

After a while, Edmund cleared his throat. "Rith... listen." He cast a quick look at his brother and then continued at his subtle nod. "I can't pretend to imagine what you're going through. But – no matter what you feel Aslan's done to you, it can't be worse that what I did to Him. He _died_ because of me. For me, in my place. And if He could love me enough to do that – forgive me enough to do that – surely He can forgive you. No matter what you've done, or what you think you've done... because He loves you."

Rith wanted to go back; he did, he truly did, despite everything he said. But he didn't just want to go back to his childhood land – he wanted to go back to his childhood. To the time when he was a Knight and a Prince, before all this had changed him. He wanted to be young and innocent again, he wanted faith in place of his cynicism, but no land could change that. He couldn't run from it, and there was no way to change who he had become.

Rith slowly rose from his chair, taking care not to knock it to the floor this time round. "He doesn't love me," he said, voice slow and bitter from defeat. "If He did, why would he let this happen to me? And why..." his voice broke, sorrow of a night long gone still fresh in his mind, "why... didn't... He... _come_?"

Rith walked to the wooden door of the shop and stepped out, pulling it closed behind him.


	13. You Were Waiting For Me, Too

**A/N:** Yes, I have been utterly remiss in updating. Moving, and starting a new job... but those aren't really great excuses. As a result, I shall post the thirteenth and final chapter tomorrow. Lord willing. In the meantime, enjoy! And let me know what you think )

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Chapter Twelve: You Were Waiting For Me, Too

Oh, how he wished he had slammed the door. But no, no, childish outbursts of temper wouldn't do. He was a grown man; he had his reasons – he had a life here in Britain, and he couldn't just leave it. He didn't even want to leave it. He had everything here, and what was there to go back to? Nothing... only -

Only Aslan.

Rith scolded himself. Surely after all these years he was still not depending on the Lion! He had learned his lesson the hard way.

When you called for Aslan, He just didn't come.

"Rith, would you like to go home?" The voice was deep and soft, resonating in the fresh air around him.

"No, no... yes... I mean...no." Wait a minute. It wasn't a chill summer evening anymore? And what was this underneath his feet – grass instead of pavement?

Rith looked up, out, beyond himself, and what he saw took his breath away. He was in a meadow at springtime, surrounded by lustrous green grass speckled with colourful wildflowers. A gentle breeze, scented with the rich earth, new leaves, and just a tinge of salt filled his lungs with a sensation he hadn't felt since... since...

Wondering, Rith stooped down to feel the grass and pluck a flower. Everything was solid and real. Even the sounds of birdsong were too loud and sweet for them to be products of his imagination. It was all beautiful, almost too pristine to be imaginable – more lush than his beloved Welsh valley, more alive than any other place he'd ever been. So then – where was he, if not Wales or Narnia?

"Where am I?" he asked, in innocent, childlike puzzlement. He felt that perhaps this was a place where any question could be asked and heard.

"Rith, would you like to go home?" It was the voice again, and this time Rith knew it was beyond real, perhaps Reality itself.

And then he saw the Speaker, and if he had thought that the sun was bright and the grass green he now knew they were dull and grey in comparison. It was the One of his best dreams and worst nightmares, the One he loved and the One he hated.

The One he feared.

On silent paws Aslan approached, breeze ruffling his mane and making it ripple like streams of molten gold. Rith gasped at his sheer size, and the power and wildness he seemed to contain. He found that his knees were shaking, and he was sweating even though it was not hot.

"Aslan..." Rith forced his voice past his breathless lungs. "Why didn't you come?" he asked, and all the fear, longing, hope, and betrayal that he'd ever felt poured out in his question, but it almost seemed ridiculous next to the form of the Lion.

Suddenly he was there, right in front of Rith, alive and glorious and _huge_. Trembling, Rith fell to his knees, not daring to meet the wild golden eyes.

"Child," Aslan said simply, and for an instant all was well in Rith's world.

A perfect moment passed before the Lion spoke again. "You are afraid," he said.

"Yes," Rith whispered, very frightened indeed.

"Fear not," said Aslan, and so Rith did not.

"Rith," Aslan said then, and there was something in his voice that compelled Rith to look into his eyes.

Rising from his knees, he did so, and saw in those deep orbs all the pain and sorrow he himself had felt over the years.

"It took you a long time to come to me," Aslan said, deep voice heavy with emotion.

Taken by surprise, Rith said the first thing that came to mind. "What do you mean? It was _you_ who never... _you_ who left me stranded." Standing there staring at the wisdom in the Lion's eyes, Rith felt stupid for saying what he had.

"You never let me come," he responded.

"What?" Confusion laced Rith's voice; he couldn't understand.

"Why didn't you call out to me that day on the cliff?" the Lion asked.

"But I did! I did, Aslan, and you didn't answer!"

"You screamed _at_ me, not _for_ me," Aslan said, and Rith shivered at the hint of a growl that rode beneath his voice.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice small, feeling very young again. But he couldn't help asking: "If I had called, would you have saved me? And my family? And all Narnia?"

"Child, no one is told what would have been."

Rith persisted. "But surely some people _were_ crying to you for help. And I know my family was, in the early days of the war. We prayed for the Witch's defeat, but it never came."

"Did it not?" Aslan's voice was low and quiet, yet undeniable power was in his tone.

Then Rith remembered what Peter had told him, and understood. "We prayed for deliverance in our time," he said, almost accusing.

A small smile graced the Lion's face. "Your timing, child, is not always the best, for you or for Narnia."

_And yours is?_ Rith wanted to retort, but he knew better. He knew the answer would be a yes.

"The wardrobe worked," he said instead. "For them, but not for me. Why? I knew it should have worked, I needed it to work!"

"Rith," Aslan answered, voice stern. "There are no comings and goings between the worlds that I do not allow. They can take place through Magic, but I control the Magic. So the Magic in the Wardrobe, or in the Rings, obeys the rules I set them."

"You didn't want me to go back?" Rith said, incredulous.

"Did you ask me to go back?"

Rith knew that, once again, the answer was no.

"You built the wardrobe with your own hands, trusting in your own works to take you where you wanted to go."

The truth hung heavy upon him, and Rith bowed his head. "Yet you still managed to use it to save Narnia," he realised.

Aslan nodded, gold rippling and changing in the sunlight.

"Was that the reason I was sent here?" he wondered.

"There were many reasons, Rith," the Lion replied.

Rith thought back on his life, the choices he'd made. "I've really made a mess of it, haven't I?"

Aslan laughed, a warm, rich, Lion's laugh. "You begin to understand. Yes, Rith, you missed many opportunities to live the life I'd meant you to lead here."

"Aslan – I'm sorry," Rith said, and he meant it. What could he have been like, if only he'd understood what was happening – or at least taken time to think about it? "Forgive me, please," he whispered, tears coming to his eyes. _Oh, Aslan, forgive me!_

"You are already forgiven, my child." The words fell upon Rith's ears like the sweetest melody, sending a shiver of delight down his spine. "You needed only to ask."

Rith sighed in pleasure, then laughed, feeling so much lighter than he had ever before. But he still needed to hear one more thing...

"Aslan, do you love me?" he asked tentatively.

The Lion laughed, a grand, merry, sorrowful sound. "Do I love you? Oh, Rith, if only I could _tell_ you how much I love you! You have no idea how precious you are to me."

Rith laughed, and he cried. "Aslan, I'm so sorry! If only I had come to you before... if only... oh, Aslan, I want to go home, to Narnia. To be with you, every single day for the rest of my life. Oh, please, if there's anything I can do..."

"Rith, do you love me?" the Lion asked.

"Oh, yes, Aslan, yes! How could I not, after what you've done – forgiven me, loved me!"

"If I asked you to die for me, would you?"

Rith thought. Once he had said yes, and believed that it was so. Now he knew that this time, not only would he say yes, but he would also mean it. "I would, Aslan," he said, confident.

"Then be at the train station at five o'clock. And come home..."

"I will! I will, Aslan! I won't disappoint you, not ever again!"

And the Lion tilted back his head and roared in pleasure, golden mane flinging back shafts of light at the sun as the sound of his voice covered the earth.

Then the sunlight faded, and Rith was on a cold London street in the beginnings of rush hour, with a Lion's roar still echoing in his ears.


	14. Pro Patria Mori

**A/N:** So I said I would post this yesterday... oops. Sorry ) Anyway, here it is - the final chapter! Thank you all so much for reading, and especially to my reviewers! You are all awesome!

And if anyone's interested, I'll soon post the entire story in pdf format on my blog, complete with cover art. Which you can also see if you click my 'Homepage' link and scroll down far enough.

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Chapter Thirteen: Pro Patria Mori

His first thought was that he had died and gone to heaven. His second thought was that, though he had never thought about it before, that might not be such a bad thing. In fact, it just might be one of the best things that could possibly happen to him...

He stood on a steep slope facing a pair of golden gates. They shone in the sunlight, tall and massive but with an air of lightness about them, as if they were no more than fragile lace handkerchiefs hung on a washline. The grass beneath him was a brilliant emerald shade of green, smooth and manicured as a palace lawn. But Rith felt that whatever was inside those walls would be fare more wonderful than any castle he had ever laid eyes on...

Suddenly a single horn blew, low and sweet, and with no noise at all the gates swung open, revealing a luscious garden. Trees and flowers of breathtaking beauty stood there, arranged impeccably in groves and thickets both wild and elegant. Rith stared, feeling that perhaps he should not enter. Then he thought that perhaps he should, and so he was standing there trying to remember what on earth he was doing here in the first place when a small figure with long dark hair ran out from among the flowers to greet him.

"Rith! Rith!" she cried, and with a start he realised that this was his long-dead sister.

"Ri'ana?" he asked, amazed, but then he was tackled almost to the ground in a fierce embrace.

"But – what – where – I thought you were..." Rith's inquires were lost beneath her joyous laughter.

"Rith, what took you so long?" A deeper male voice called out behind him.

Struggling to stay upright, Rith turned to see his older brother grinning down at him. "Ri'hael! What are you doing... are Father and Mother here too?" His last words were somewhat muffled as his brother wrapped him in a massive hug.

"Of course, silly," he said, and Rith looked over his shoulder to see a young-looking couple walking down through the gates towards them. Breaking away from his siblings, Rith ran to them.

"Father! Mother!" They smiled, and for the first time in decades, Rith felt truly at home.

"I though I could never see you again, or Narnia for that matter," Rith explained a while later, looking in wonder at the land spread around him. And now he could see with the eyes of eagles, from the beach near Cair Paravel to the very edge of the Western Wilds and beyond.

"But this is Narnia," Ri'ana said, laughing at her brother. "Don't you see? Only it's better than ever before!"

"Yes, I suppose it is," he replied, smiling when his brother gave a snort of amusement. Yes, he was back in Narnia – or perhaps he had just truly arrived – but he still had habits from his years of life in Britain.

"It's not so bad, really, when you come to think of it," his mother said thoughtfully.

"What isn't?"

"Death."

"No, I suppose it isn't," Ri'hael interjected quickly, mimicking his younger brother's tone.

Rith laughed, then said soberly: "Quite."

It seemed that all his family could do that day was laugh. Secretly, Rith wondered if they had been doing the same thing every day before he came.

When they had quieted somewhat, Rith said: "I truly didn't think I would ever see any of you again. But Aslan... Aslan..."

"Shhhh," his mother said, with a twinkle in her eye. "You've said all there is to say. Aslan."

Rith nodded. Surrounded by his family and friends, in a land he knew he didn't deserve to inhabit, he whispered: "So this is love."

And far off in the distance, a Lion roared.


End file.
